maybe this is all just a dream
by isi7140
Summary: Really, John just wants to move on. Too bad his nightmares won't let him. (Post-Reichenbach. John dreams, lives, and lets go.)


Beta'd by cheekyrox.

* * *

_Shock._

He knows shock, he's seen it so many times in Afghanistan, in the clinic, he recognizes the symptoms — _disorientation, shallow breathing, tachycardia_ — and he knows that yes, he is definitely in shock.

(_Look, I've got a blanket_)

He's looking up and he can't understand why on earth Sherlock is standing on the hospital roof. Crying. Apologizing. And far, far too close to the edge.

(_I can't come down_)

He remembers the moment when he realized exactly how much danger Sherlock was in —_Mrs. Hudson's fine. She's fine. Then why...? Oh my god,_ Sherlock — when he realized that the consulting detective was completely alone. He remembers thinking about the cabbie from A Study in Pink, knowing that he would do anything — _shoot, kill_ — to protect his friend, and the moment he realized that this time he's completely helpless.

_Why is he saying he's a fake? He's not a fake, he's my best friend, he's my friend,_ please_, Sherlock_

(_Please, will you do this for me?_)

John isn't sure, but he thinks that Sherlock is reaching out for him despite the accusations

(_You machine_)

and the lies

(_Just a magic trick_)

and the events of the past twenty-four hours driving a wedge between them. He thinks he can feel his heart shattering in his chest.

(_I'll burn you_)

One day ago this nightmare was just a case. A simple case at that. They had solved the puzzle and saved the children and everything had been going according to plan and then everything fell apart and now he's standing in the street watching in horror as his best friend…

Sherlock says he's leaving a note and John knows, he _knows_ what that means, but he doesn't want to, so he asks in a vain attempt to delay the inevitable—

(_Goodbye, John_)

—and then he jumps and John can't breathe because he's falling, falling, _falling…_

He wakes up.

* * *

He's at the grave for the first time in three months, the first time since the funeral. The black marble tombstone gleams dully, patchy grass is starting to cover the long patch of earth where…

_The service was small and simple. Short – Sherlock wouldn't have wanted them to make a fuss anyways._ Sentiment. _Honestly, John doesn't really remember the funeral._

He's spent a long time thinking about what he's going to say here. Ella said it it would help, telling her what he never got to say. But he couldn't. Even if Sherlock can't hear him now, he simply can't say these words to anyone else.

_'You told me once that you weren't a hero.'_

But he _was_ a hero. His best friend was a hero and now he's…

Dead.

_'So there.'_

This time he has the last word. For _once_, he has the last word because Sherlock doesn't reply. Because he can't. Never again.

_'I was so alone and I owe you so much...'_ and the stone is cold under his fingers. So cold. So dead. He breathes in. Out.

Turns to leave.

He's said everything he planned to, everything he thought he needed to, but he can't leave without asking, because if anyone could then…

(_No one could be that clever._)

(_You could._)

He turns back to the grave

_'One more miracle, Sherlock. For me.'_

and now he's begging

_'Don't be dead.'_

and he knows it's impossible but he doesn't care

_'Please, would you...'_ (_...do this for me?_)

and he knows that this will be the last request he ever makes of Sherlock (the last request Sherlock ever made of him).

_'Stop this.'_

Silence.

And for the first time he really understands what that lack of sound means, and the last spark of hope he's clung to for months goes cold, and he _breaks_.

Sherlock isn't coming back.

He's dead.

_He weeps. No sound. All he can see is the cold final stone in front of him._

He stands at attention, gives a small nod, his final salute. He turns with sharp military precision away from the grave, away from his best friend who – he only now realizes – has been his superior officer all along.

* * *

He's still working at the clinic. Sarah hadn't even questioned his choice, hadn't asked a single question about the... _incident_, and John is so grateful to her because she knows that right now he needs some normalcy. They hadn't spoken much, but she had made it abundantly clear to him that she supported him — and Sherlock — completely.

When one of the younger doctors begins to harass him about his association with Sherlock, she makes it clear to everyone else as well.

He's grateful for her support, but he actually manages pretty well on his own... for the most part; the nightmares still won't go away. At work, he always arrives on time, takes the difficult patients, often stays late. He proves his worth as a doctor, not just a blogger.

No more falling asleep at his desk. No more texts coming in at odd hours calling him to the chase.

He's leaving work now (though he doesn't really remember how he got here), crossing the street on his way to the nearby Tesco's to pick up some milk and beans. And he's halfway there when he sees neon yellow on the side of the nearby building.

I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK.

He doesn't see the bike coming.

He's on the ground. Head ringing. Blinks. He has to get across the street _NOW_. People are gathering. He can see Sherlock. He can see the blood.

Oh, God, the _blood_.

He pushes himself upright. Stumbles forwards towards the rapidly growing group. Tries to get through. The world is spinning around him. He is in _shock_.

They won't let him through.

_'I'm a doctor! Let me come through.'_

He can't hear his own voice in his ears, can't hear the voices around him. All he can hear is the echo of that awful thud, body-on-pavement.

There's _too much blood_. It's getting on his shoes.

_'He's my friend, please'_

People don't survive losing that much blood.

He takes Sherlock's wrist in his hand.

(_Take my hand_)

Presses the radial artery under his fingers. Waits. _No._ Waits longer.

His body is still warm. Still warm as they peel his hand off and they're going to take Sherlock away and his vision begins to white out.

They turn Sherlock over and all he can see is his best friend's face streaked with dark, dark blood and those fascinating glasz eyes staring emptily at the sky.

_Too much blood._

He's never seen those eyes empty. Empty of that intelligence, that _intensity_ that caught him up that day in Bart's and led him on the chase of a lifetime. Never. He can't quite comprehend what he's seeing.

It's horrible.

_No._

They take Sherlock away and he can't stop them and his best friend is gone. The world moves on around him, and he stares after them as the tears burn his eyes, unshed.

There's blood on the pavement. It's staining his shoes.

He wakes up.

* * *

He tries to pull his life together. Eventually, finally, things start getting better. People start to think of him as 'Dr. Watson' instead of 'John Watson, Blogger'. The media mostly leaves him alone. It's been over a year, and Sherlock is old news. He's building a life for himself, meeting people, going on dates. He still gets hate mail, but he also gets messages showing support for Sherlock. He sees yellow graffiti in the Tube stations, and Harry tells him that Twitter is alive with posts from old clients and fans. And he's grateful.

But really, he just wants to move on.

Too bad his nightmares won't let him.

He'd reopened the blog for a few months, posting old pictures and cases he'd never had time to write up, a way of focusing on the good memories instead of the bad. But it only seemed to attract the haters, and their accusations only made his nights worse.

_The dull thud as Sherlock hits the pavement and the blood runs._

He watches the video Greg brought by one last time. Listens to his dead friend's voice, smiles slightly at his blunt honesty. Closes his eyes as Sherlock makes an impossible promise.

Sherlock smiles and winks and the frame freezes. John opens up his computer and shuts his blog down.

He's going to forget. After all, he's got Mary now. Maybe if he concentrates on that, he can finally, finally let go.

* * *

It's been two years and he thinks he's survived. He has a life. He has friends. He has Mary. Sometimes he still wakes gasping, but he thinks — _hopes_ — that he's getting better.

He thinks that he might be getting married soon.

He wonders sometimes, if someone told him _'run, he's getting away'_ whether he would fall easily back into the rhythm of the chase... or turn away. He honestly doesn't know.

He's sitting at his desk, just finishing up for the day. Someone enters as he finishes tidying up the papers, and he looks up.

"John. I've come back."

He wakes up.


End file.
